Goodbye to an Old Friend

For the past 20 years, I've driven a White Chevy Venture Mini-Van, affectionately known as White Lightning. Ten years before that I drove a white Chevy station wagon, complete with the rear-facing back seat that my kids always called the trunk. (I got a few looks when the kids would ask publicly if it was their turn to ride in the trunk.)

In short, I've driven a Mom Machine for more than half of my life, putting a grand total of 550,000 miles on those  vehicles while rarely driving  any further than 30 miles from home.

To offer full disclosure, the Mini-Van was actually 2 vans. My first died on me after 200,000 + miles, and my dad found another one EXACTLY THE SAME, except for the mileage, and I managed to put another 100,000 on it. Most people didn't even know White Lightning had been replaced with Junior, and, even for me, the memories of the two meld into one.

Anyway, I've been thinking about getting a "new-to-me" car in recent months, with a steady nudge from Walter along the way. When I announced it was time a few months ago, Walter jumped into action with Consumer Reports and safety features and tech plugs and fuel efficiency.

I asked for something that sat up higher than a car, and had room for my dog and a car-seat for my associate. (You probably have guessed that Walter is a more responsible consumer and did ALL of the leg work on this purchase.) The man even set a day aside in his calendar for boots on the ground shopping.

That day was a Saturday. A very abnormally hot day for October. The day when 4 guys were crawling around on the top of our house replacing a roof. The day when Susan Collins walked away from her place in history as a woman's advocate by voting in favor of Kavanaugh's appointment to the Supreme Court Justice. But, I'm getting off the subject. . .

So within a very short period of time, we test drove, put a hold on a little SUV, filled out the paper work, got an offer for Junior and went home to think for awhile. Well, actually Walter thought while I took a little nap.

After our thinking (and sleeping), we both gave the car a thumbs up, and decided to go back to make the final purchase.

At that point, it hit me. My beloved van would not be making the trip home with us.

 As I took her on her final spin, the tears began to fall. The woman, who doesn't cry at funerals or during documentaries about Mr. Rogers or even when Old Yeller meets his end, was crying over a 1998 Venture Van with rust on the panel and too many digits on the odometer.

I cried the sad kind of tears, the kind where you blink really big and use your t-shirt to wipe them off before they fall too far down your cheeks.

I cried embarrassed tears, asking Walter to not look at me while he patted my leg.

I cried tears that made me angry. After all, this van was a material piece of metal (and rust) and the Buddhist-wannabe in me deigned any connection with a thing.

But here I was crying for the children that used to ride in her, the teenagers that argued, the slightly tipsy teachers I drove back home as the teetotaler of the bunch. I cried for all of the Cross Country meets and college visits.

 I cried for the trips to to the farm with my dog riding shotgun. I cried for the day I left my 25 year old marriage with that van carrying everything that I dared to take with me. I cried for the countless trips to psychiatrists and counselors and nutritionists.

I cried for trips to the zoo and Science Center trips, for the trips to rallies and protests, to churches, to friends' homes, to Kroger and, of course, to school.

I cried for it all, the good, the bad, the ugly, the mundane, and the profound.

It was a tough goodbye.

By the time Walter and I made it back to the dealer my tears had slowed and I knew that it was time.  She had served me well, and I will always remember her fondly.

As we loaded into our new car, I gently patted the Old Girl's hood as I passed her, but I didn't look back as we drove off the lot.

New adventures await me in the driver's seat of my new car and I'm excited for the future. May Ruth* serve me as faithfully as those who've gone before her. Thanks be to God.



*Note: I was determined that I would not associate the first day of this car's life with the confirmation of Kavanaugh so I named her for the Notorious RBG.

Do They Love Me Now?

My 4 year old grandson and beloved associate (I totally stole that term from Anne Lamott), Bo, likes to ask questions, big questions without clear answers.

Questions like "Where was I before I was in Momma's tummy?"

Answers like "You just were. . " aren't very satisfying to a literal minded young boy and maybe not even to his middle-aged Nanny. (Back off if you laughed at middle-aged because I'm totally living until I'm 110.)

Recently his questions have turned to death.

Looking at a picture of my grandparents on our refrigerator, he asked who they were. I told him they were his great-great grandparents. I told him their names, that the farm we sometimes visit had belonged to them.

He took this all in but quickly asked, Where do they live now?

I paused a moment, with words about heaven and Jesus floating through my head, but I quickly recovered and remembered who my audience was.

"Popaw and Nana lived long, good lives. They grew gardens, and had dogs and baby pigs. They loved Mammy and then me and then Momma. When they were very old, they were finished with all of their work and then they died."

"But where are they?" Bo continued as he ate fruit snacks and stacked blocks.

"They're in the ground at a cemetery near the farm."

"Under the ground?"

"Under the ground."

"Do they love me now?"

"They most certainly love you now."

With that, he moved on to play one of his Papa's board games, with slightly different rules where everybody takes turns winning and losing, mostly.

After he was back at his home, and I was picking up dice (he loves dice!) and markers and other Bo remnants, I revisited our conversation, and wondered what the real answer to his question might be.

I've been watching a Netflix series about a religious family that lives their lives constantly thinking of eternity.

The characters don't worry so much about how their decisions work out here on earth but how those decisions will effect their time in the heavenly kingdom.  (If you haven't figured out the show, don't ask. You would think less of me if I told you.)

Watching this show (and yes, I do know it's a show) I get caught up in the drama and find myself thinking Wow, those people really believe in heaven. How strange is that. 

When suddenly, I jolt myself back to my living room and say Well, hey, you believe in heaven, too. . . . Don't you. . . . maybe. 

And then I can imagine my grandmother standing in heaven's kitchen pulling biscuits out of the oven and I feel guilty for the maybe.

I grew up with the idea of a heaven and hell, but I could never tell for sure if people were being straight up with me.

Honestly, I've been to lots of funerals with people who believed in such places but so far 100% of those made it to the pearly gates if you want take the pastor's word for it. From a quantitative standpoint, I'm not sure that is statistically possible.

But really, at this point in my life it doesn't matter.  Although I really like to think there is an actual heaven where only good things happen for people who were born and lived under really shitty circumstances.

But, if you go with that whole balance theory where if there is an up, there has to be a down, then with the concept of heaven also comes the idea of hell. And I just don't see Love doing the whole Hell thing. I'm sorry, but I just don't.

Secretly, I think I like the idea of hell even a bit more than heaven. You know what I mean, just for the people I don't particularly like, like wall-builders and NRA supporters that stand with signs that say "Real Mamas pack heat" and people that are mean to dogs and parents that don't read to their kids.

But, that would make it my hell, just like mountains and trails and literary fiction would make it my heaven. . see where I'm going with this.

If there is one thing that has remained consistent in my upbringing, and even the most fundamental and progressive religious practices can agree on is that God is love.

So, my dear Bo, I am confident in answering your questions now. You, like every other human being, came from the very being of God and when death comes, you will go right back to that sacred space, where Nana and Popaw are already loving you.

Where you are in between your arrival and departure? Well, that's for you to decide.

 I hope you recognize early that the holy is in you and you walk through life knowing whose you are. It certainly makes this life less scary and a bit more joyful.  Actually, heaven isn't even necessary because living in that Love is enough.

And now, Bo, it's time for me to ponder your next big question.

Why does the poop in birds just fall out of them?

Thanks be to God for 4 year old boys.

#blessed

I've never been accused of being a cheerful person.

Cynical and sarcastic maybe but not cheerful. I prefer to go with realistic and honest.

Truthfully, really cheerful people kind of get on my nerves a little.

I really don't run into too much cheerfulness since I spend most of my days with kids who are afraid of "active shooters" and teachers who have devoted their lives to the profession and just want their promised pension but I digress. (Maybe I should add bitter to realistic and honest.)

And if there is something worse (to me) than a cheerful person, it's a cheerful Christian.

You know what I'm talking about. People that walk around saying things like "God does everything for a reason" and "My life is so blessed."

I mean, what does that even say about God. . . .

 I've heard folks say they were blessed when they found a good parking spot, or they passed a test, or found a decent spouse. If that's true, that must mean the dude who is parking in the overflow lot really messed up. The students who failed the test must have made God mad, and God was trying to test me not bless me when I was married the first time.

Remember, I said I wasn't cheerful; I never said anything about not being touchy and critical.


So, when Kathy, my church's music minister, showed me a children's book of blessings and later asked me to ponder blessing passages from the Bible as we look towards the kids' Spring Music production, I actually kind of cringed inside and made some kind of bad joke, I'm sure. But, since Kathy used the word ponder (I LOVE that word) I decided to do just that and the journey has caused me to re-think blessed.

Don't tell Mrs. Bramel, my 5th grade Sunday School teacher, may she rest in peace, but I decided to google some bible verses, even though thanks to her, I do know where a few of those are located. Maybe.

And trust me, Google didn't fail.

  " Then Jesus took the children in his arms and placed his hands on their heads and blessed them." (Mark 10:16)

It didn't say he healed them or that he promised them good things. He took them in his arms, he touched them and blessed them.

So what if being blessed isn't about who has a great car or healthy children or a secure job. What if being blessed means you've been touched by the Divine, a reminder that you are not alone in this world.

If that's the case, I am blessed.. . again and again and again, for the Divine is everywhere.

The last time I saw my grandmother her frail body was barely recognizable from just a month earlier. Her speech was gone and her eyes refused to open, but when I placed my head on her chest, she reached her hand to touch my shoulder. She blessed me.

My dear friends that used rough hands to drag me towards recovery and stability when my mental illness was left untreated -- they blessed me.

When my mother wraps her arms around me in her doorway as I walk into her home, she blesses me.

When our grandson sleeps over and awakens me by stroking my face, he blesses me (even if it is 5:30 am!)

At Godly Play each week, the storyteller touches each child and reminds them that the Divine lives in each of them, all of them -- we bless them.

Every morning at my elementary school, the teachers stand outside their classrooms doors and greet the children with smiles, and good mornings, and handshakes and hugs-- we bless them.

At my parents, when we are all together, we hold hands while my dad prays. It's not the prayer but the entwined hands that bless us.

My beloved blesses me each time he reaches back for my hand as we cross a busy street.

No matter how big or small, each blessing, each touch, whispers to us that we are never alone, that we are more than we could ever imagine.

So if a blessing can be equated with a touch, it's impossible to give one without receiving one. Those children that Jesus blessed as they laughed and squirmed and maybe even argued, their touch blessed the Chosen One as well.

So being blessed isn't about who won and who lost, but who agrees to walk with Love.

I guess I can agree with all those cheerful Christians now in that I am indeed blessed. Just don't tell anyone, I don't want folks thinking I'm getting soft.

I guess I'll get on Amazon Prime and order a new bumper sticker - #blessed.

I'm Giving Up People for Lent

Like so many moms and teachers, I'm so angry after yesterday's latest school shooting that I would like to just smack somebody -- the problem is I'm not exactly sure who to smack and what that would actually help.

I do know that if I hear one more person talk about the 2nd amendment, or mental illness, or bullying, I might come unglued. Let's be real, bullying has always been around, the best of us are haunted with mental illness, and the 2nd amendment was written when there was no military or police to protect us and the musket fired one ball at a time.

The manufacturing and availability of machine-type guns are the reason that school shootings are out of control. Period. Anyone that honestly thinks they can counter that, I've given you up for Lent.

And while I'm on the soapbox. . .

The Cooperative Baptist Fellowship came out with some ridiculous statement that tells the LGBTQ community that we love you and all of that but please make sure you sit in the back of the bus.

Come on, folks, this conversation is old and boring. If you don't affirm the community, say it, own it. Don't hide behind words.

People that support the recent statement, I've given you up for Lent.

Folks who own their homophobia, I respect you for your honesty and, proudly support your right to be a jerk, but just in case you needed to know, I've given you up for Lent as well.

Since I'm in the mood, I've also given up people that don't pick up their dog's poop and parents that don't read to their children.

I've given up people that want to build a wall and say that African Americans have a chip on their shoulders.

I've given up educators that focus more on test scores than the children that they represent. I've given up Christians who use their beliefs to exclude those they'd rather not spend eternity with.

I've given up people that park in handicap spots when they shouldn't, I've given up sports announcers that say girls basketball, when they would never say boys basketball.

I've given up people who are always late and people who don't have a sense of humor.

I don't think for a minute that this will actually help anyone, but I know I need a break, and Lent seemed like a good time.

The good news is God doesn't celebrate Lent. . . the Divine doesn't give up on any of us. . . ever.
Christ have mercy.

Thoughts on my favorite shitholes

Donald Trump wondering aloud why the U.S. is only attractive to immigrants from shithole countries has been all over the news.

Honestly, I don't care about the language any more -- although I would like to say to him "so you kiss your kids with that mouth?"

It's the sentiment, not the word, that makes me so very sad for our country. Experience tells me that Trump is only giving voice to what many Americans feel and pass on to each other, if not so blatantly as the president.

As a young child, I spent the first 12 years or so of my life living on West 8th Street in Covington. Right now, Covington is sort of becoming trendy, but not so much then. Even within the community there was a sort of hierarchy. . . Latonia and West Covington constantly tried to distance themselves from the rest of the city. And, of course, West 8th was certainly a step up from West 7th. What I didn't know until I went to college was that the rest of the area considered all of Covington a shithole city.

Even now nearly 50 years later, I get looks from people who are familiar with the area, when they find out I graduated from Holmes. In college, I learned quickly to say I was from Northern Kentucky rather than Covington.

The paternal side of my family is from the Appalachian Mountains. I loved the mountains as a young girl (and still do). I loved the family, the music, the stories, the food, but I kept that close to my heart as well because society had already told me that the hills of Eastern Kentucky was a shithole with nothing but moonshiners, pill pushers and disability checks.

My mother's family lived on a farm that is still beautiful, but the house my grandparents lived in until their death was a four room cabin, with uneven floors, and no running water. I was amazed at  how self-sufficient they were with milk from cows, my grandma making rugs from rags, using lard from the hogs for soap, but I kept that to myself as well. For as anyone can see, only folks from a shithole use an outhouse and shovel cow manure onto their vegetable gardens.

In my 40s, I finally realized that my experiences were all sacred times in sacred places, and I'm quick to tell anyone about how deeply my roots are in Kentucky (and that some of us even wear shoes).

I'm also quick to tell them that even after doing a fair amount of traveling, Eastern Kentucky is the prettiest place on earth. And that we used that outhouse again when my daughter and her husband were married on the front porch of that little house in what may have been the most beautiful wedding of all time. I can tell you the stories of my childhood-- buying bubblegum at Jean's store on the corner with an empty coke bottle, roller skating with one skate so a friend could skate with the other, watching the old ladies on West 8th walk to mass with handkerchiefs on their heads.

Yesterday, the gospel reading came from John 1, where Nathaniel says to Phillip, "Can anything good come from Nazareth?" Translated into the President's language, "Can a valuable person come from the shithole city of Nazareth?" Thankfully, that question has been answered.

Somebody needs to let the President know.